


Two Hearts

by robinwritesallthefanfiction



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Language, Poetry, Romance, Self-Insert, Series, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinwritesallthefanfiction/pseuds/robinwritesallthefanfiction
Summary: When Robin Ballard meets her professor Dr. Denny Duquette, it’s love at first sight. But can their new relationship survive all the challenges they’ll face?





	1. Mad Girl's Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin meets her new professor and sparks fly.

**Robin**

I glance at my phone, checking to make sure I’ve got the room number right. I’m early, as usual; it’s a habit I can’t seem to break. I peek through the door and see a man inside, but his back is to me, so I can’t see his face.

I knock lightly on the door so I don’t startle him.

He turns. My eyes widen and I bite my lip. I’m guessing that he’s the professor for my course, but I’m not sure. Dr. Duquette was hired over the summer to replace someone who retired, but there’s no picture of him on his faculty page, so I have no idea what he looks like.

Whoever this man is, he’s extraordinarily handsome. Like celebrity, my job is to look good 24/7 handsome. He’s very tall, and very lean, and very long. Long legs, long arms, long fingers, long torso. His dark brown hair is tousled, and his stubble is streaked through with silver. I’m guessing that he’s in his late 40s, possibly early 50s, but not any older than that.

I tilt my head slightly and revise my celebrity assumption a bit. He looks real, like a man you could actually meet walking down the street, not just the fantasy of one. There’s a boyish cuteness to him, and while his dress slacks, light purple dress shirt, and vest are all professional, they’re rumpled, like he grabbed them off of the floor shortly before leaving his home.

His hazel eyes are warm and kind as he gazes at me. I realize that I should say something; I was the one who knocked, after all. But I can’t seem to make myself speak.

He smiles, and good grief, he has dimples for days. My breath catches in my throat as he pulls his thick, black-framed glasses down his nose to look at me.

“Are you here for my American poetry class?” His voice is deep and husky, but there’s a comforting lightness to it as well. A shiver runs down my spine. He’s definitely Dr. Duquette, then.

I’m momentarily distracted by other details of his appearance. He’s wearing several bracelets on his right wrist and a watch on his left. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and I can see several tattoos, though not well enough to figure out what they are. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, allowing dark curls of chest hair to peek out over his vest. They’re covering a shiny scar that’s barely visible, even standing this close.

I’ve never seen a man this attractive before. I didn’t know people who looked like him really existed.

Suddenly I realize that he’ll think I’m an absolute idiot if I don’t answer. I smile, immediately flustered when I feel myself blushing. I thought I got over the whole blushing thing years ago. “Yes. Should I wait in the hall? I don’t want to bother you if you’re still prepping.”

“Not at all.” He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I’m Denny. I don’t think we’ve met.” He holds out his hand and my stomach flips at the prospect of touching him.

Still, I extend my own hand and grasp his; it would be terribly rude not to. I feel giddy and dizzy as his fingers envelop mine and our palms touch.

His smile falters and he holds onto my hand longer than he should. He looks intensely curious, and I grip the strap of my bag tightly in my other hand to steady myself. When he finally lets go, he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“And you are?” he eventually prompts. I mentally slap myself, though his voice isn’t judgmental. In fact, it’s a little breathy.

It almost sounds… reverent.

I rush to reply, talking too fast. “Robin. Robin Ballard.” I pause. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.” I blush all over again and he licks his lips before regaining his composure and flashing me another gorgeous smile.

“Well, I hope my class won’t bore you too much.” He winks at me playfully and gestures to the tables beside him. “Please, have a seat anywhere.” He turns back to the board, pausing for a moment before he erases what he’s already written and starts over. He watches me out of the corner of his eye as I select a seat.

I sit where I always do, in the center of the front row. The corner of Dr. Duquette’s mouth quirks up. “Front row, huh? You must be an overachiever,” he teases. I smile shyly.

“It’s graduate school,” I point out. “We’re all overachievers by nature.” His laugh is hearty and genuine, and I’m secretly pleased. I love to laugh, and I love making others laugh too. Preferably with me, of course.

Two more people walk into the room, drawing my attention to the door. The clock above it indicates that there’s only ten minutes left until class starts. I don’t recognize the students, so they’re probably in a different field of study than I am. Everyone has to take courses in certain areas, and this one fulfills the American literature requirement. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

They take their seats a few rows behind me, and one loudly whispers, “Who’s the nerd in the front row?” I bristle automatically, sitting up a little straighter. Dr. Duquette’s eyes flick to the side as he continues writing.

“I don’t know,” the other retorts. “But it looks like she’s playing teacher’s pet.” Dr. Duquette’s gaze grows dark, and I stare at him pleadingly, silently willing him not to defend me. That’s the last thing I need. He presses his lips together in a thin line, clearly restraining himself.

“Thank you,” I mouth, knowing that he’s the only one who can see me because of my position. I’m flattered that the comments have affected him and that he cares enough to intervene, but him responding will only make the situation worse.

My face feels like it’s on fire, so I take a deep breath to calm myself and focus on his handwriting. It’s cramped and inelegant, but readable, which is more than I can say for most professors.

The last few students finally trickle in; the group is small since it’s a graduate course. Dr. Duquette takes attendance and we’re all called upon to briefly introduce ourselves. I’m first on the list, and he gazes at me wistfully as I talk, barely managing to keep my voice steady. I hardly listen as the other students take their turns; I can’t seem to look away from him.

He hands out the syllabus and walks us through it. I can tell that everyone is already itching to leave. Normally I would be too, considering that I’m not the biggest fan of poetry and this course is just a requirement. But my stomach is tight and I haven’t stopped biting my lip since I walked into the room. I find myself craving just one more word, one more glance.

He looks at me several times throughout the class, his gaze lingering on me longer than it lingers on anyone else. Otherwise, he mostly divides his attention evenly. At first I try to convince myself that I’m imagining it, that I just want it to be that way, but eventually I have to admit that it is definitely not my imagination. I tell myself sternly that I cannot even consider going there; I’ve seen the havoc wreaked by interdepartmental relationships.

Instead of dismissing us, he turns to the board. A collective sigh fills the room from behind me and I see his shoulders lift as he chuckles under his breath. “I’ve written a poem on the board so we can get started this evening,” he announces. “‘Mad Girl’s Love Song,’ by Sylvia Plath. Would anyone care to read it aloud for us?”

I’m not surprised when no one offers. Usually I don’t volunteer to read; I’m too smug about it, which is a trait that I don’t like about myself. But I raise my hand just enough so that he sees me, and I’m rewarded with yet another stunning smile. “Thank you, Ms. Ballard.” I can’t breathe for a moment after he says my name. “Go ahead. Whenever you’re ready.”

I study the poem for a brief moment before I start. My voice is low, but audible. I try to give the words the gravity they deserve.

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;_   
_I lift my lids and all is born again._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

I stumble a little over the last sentence because it seems so apt for the circumstances. Dr. Duquette is looking exclusively at me while I read, and heat blooms over my cheeks again.

Damn my treacherous body.

_The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,_   
_And arbitrary blackness gallops in:_   
_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_   
_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

As I read this stanza, Dr. Duquette raises his hand to his face, stroking his stubble slowly and licking his lips. It takes all my willpower not to stutter. He seems completely captivated by my reading. I pause briefly to swallow before I continue.

_God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:_   
_Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:_   
_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

_I fancied you’d return the way you said,_   
_But I grow old and I forget your name._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

_I should have loved a thunderbird instead;_   
_At least when spring comes they roar back again._   
_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

I sigh as I finish, and Dr. Duquette raises his eyebrows. “It’s beautiful,” I murmur. He nods.

“It is,” he confirms. “Your reading did it justice.” I dip my head timidly and smile at him, glad that no one else can see my face. He looks around, making eye contact with every student in the room briefly. “Now for the hard question.” He smirks and takes his glasses off, folding them up and sticking them in his vest pocket. “What does it mean?”

No one answers him, but he waits patiently. I’m always surprised that even in graduate classes, no one wants to talk. The two students from before giggle behind me, and one declares, “Well, she’s obviously crazy and imagined that she was in love with somebody.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes. Dr. Duquette chuckles at my reaction. “Well, that’s a start,” he acknowledges. “Does anyone have a different interpretation?”

He looks around the room once more. When no one speaks for a second time, I suggest my opinion.

“I think she’s so in love that she can’t think straight,” I start. Dr. Duquette listens to me, leaning against the table, crossing his long legs and folding his arms over his chest. “She can’t believe that the person she loves really exists, or that that person returns her love. She says that when she shuts her eyes, the world drops dead, meaning that when she can’t see that person, the world ceases to matter. She’s not crazy. She’s just feeling things she’s never felt before, and she doesn’t know what to do.”

I bite my lip again as I finish. That was a little too accurate than I care to admit, and suddenly I find myself wondering why he switched poems. He erased the board after I came into the room.

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

I hope I don’t look like a deer in the headlights. Dr. Duquette smiles at me, nodding his head a little. “I think that’s a very poignant interpretation, Ms. Ballard,” he informs the class. “It’s easy to take the words at face value, but remember, poetry often has hidden meanings. You have to look underneath the surface sometimes. And,” he finishes, his gaze falling on me once more, his eyes dark, “each person’s reaction to a poem can be different as well, leaving room for many different interpretations. It’s not that there’s one right answer.” He looks around the room again. 

“But before we can address that, you all need to start talking in class,” he jokes. A weak ripple of laughter moves through the room and I give him a secret smile. “Okay, I’ll let you all go,” he relents. “Make sure you do the reading for next week, and come prepared with some interpretations.” Everyone behind me files out quickly. I’m always slower to put my things away, which usually bothers me.

This time, I think it’s not so bad.

Suddenly, I hear voices out in the hallway. “Did you hear her?” someone chirps loudly. “‘It’s beautiful.’” Her voice gets high as she mimics me, and I tighten my hands into fists on the table.

“Think she’s got it bad for Dr. Duquette?” the other scoffs. “Whatever. He wouldn’t be interested in her.” I bite my lip hard as I feel tears well up in my eyes. Dammit. I do not cry in front of people. Not anymore.

Dr. Duquette gets up and shuts the door before coming over to my table, perching on it, and putting one of his hands over mine. I shut my eyes briefly and relax a little. There’s no window in the door, so no one can see us. His touch is immensely comforting, and I’m afraid of that. He doesn’t say anything, giving me the time I need to gather myself.

“Your hands are warm,” I observe softly. The smile that results from the comment is unusually pleased and I tilt my head curiously.

“I’m still not used to having warm hands,” he responds cryptically, curling his fingers around mine. “Are you all right, Robin?”

I shiver as he says my first name and then find myself apologizing without answering his question. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.” I nod in the direction of the hallway.

“They didn’t say anything rude about me, Robin.”

“Yes, they did,” I counter. “Assuming you would think of any student in your class romantically is disrespectful and inappropriate.” I glance up at him as I say it to see his reaction.

I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate as he reaches out and gently smooths a loose strand of hair over my ear. “To be honest, Robin, I’m not very concerned with what’s appropriate. Life’s too short.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just look at him, waiting for an explanation. My lips part involuntarily when he starts to unbutton his vest and shirt a little more until he’s completely exposed the scar on his chest. It’s long and straight and right over his heart.

“I had a heart transplant one year ago,” he reveals quietly. “I waited for a new heart for seven years. Every day, I thought I was going to die, and I was totally alone. I never really thought that I would get a heart, but I finally did.”

“Are you okay?” I ask shakily. I just met him, but the thought of him dying rocks me to the core. I reach my hand towards his scar, but pull it back at the last minute.

He reaches out, tugging me forward just enough so that he can place my hand on his chest. My eyes fill with tears as I feel his heart beat, savoring the feel of his soft hair and slightly rough skin against my palm.

“I’m okay now, Robin,” he assures me. “But what happened to me put a lot of things into perspective.” He licks his lips, clearly choosing his next words carefully. “For instance, I don’t wait anymore when I want something.”

I take a deep breath; my head is spinning. “What do you want?”

I need to hear him say it, because I don’t know what to think. I’ve never been desirable. I’ve never been in this kind of situation. I’ve been sitting here trying to convince myself that I’m probably wrong, that he’s probably not flirting with me, that I’m just blowing everything way out of proportion, that I need to stop embarrassing myself. But clearly there’s more going on here than I realize.

He slides closer to me on the desk, keeping his hand firmly over mine on his chest, putting his free fingers under my chin and tilting my head up so he can look into my eyes. “I want to get to know you better,” he states decisively. “My heart skipped a beat when you walked into the room, Robin, and as you can probably imagine, I pay careful attention when that happens.”

“It did not,” I protest, laughing a little.

I might be trying to brush it off, but my own heart is beating faster. Part of me thinks that I must be dreaming. A man like him shouldn’t want me.

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

He runs his thumb over my lower lip. “Okay, maybe not literally. But I obviously deal in the figurative.” He pauses for a moment before seriously asking, “Let me buy you a coffee?”

I want to say yes. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.

But what comes out of my mouth is, “We can’t.”

He gives me a small smile; his eyes are a little sad. “Because it’s against the rules?” he questions gently.

I sigh. “It’s not technically against the rules, Dr. Duquette. You and I both know that.”

“Denny,” he corrects me.

I shake my head. “No, Dr. Duquette. It may not be against the rules, but you’re my professor for the semester. You’re giving me a grade. I know that the line is blurred between professors and graduate students. We’re in limbo. We’re not quite professionals yet, and we’re not just students anymore either. But socializing as colleagues is one thing and…” I bite my tongue. I’m not sure what to call it.

“Dating is another,” he finishes. I nod in agreement, my stomach fluttering at the thought of dating him.

“It’s not right,” I continue. “It would look bad for both of us if anyone found out. I don’t want to damage your career. I’ve seen your list of publications and awards. You have a lot to lose, Dr. Duquette.”

He bows his head. “I appreciate that, Robin, though it’s nothing to be impressed by. When you’re bedridden, there’s not much to do besides read and write. But my career is something I can afford to lose. I’d rather be happy.”

“And you think I’d make you happy?” I wonder breathlessly.

He grins. “I do think that, yes.”

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

He takes his glasses out of his pocket and slips them back on. “If it makes you uncomfortable, Robin, I’ll wait. Just because I don’t like to be patient doesn’t mean I can’t be. But I want you to give me your number, and I want you to have mine. Call me if you need me, okay? For anything at all.” He finally lets go of my hand so he can pull his phone out, handing it to me so I can type in my information. I let my palm linger on his chest for just a few more seconds before I pull it back to give him mine too. Trading phone numbers isn’t crossing a line.

After we exchange our phones back, I’m not sure what else to do. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do at the moment, really. Whatever this is, it has to be put on hold until the semester is over.

I hang my head a little, trying desperately to think of options. I could drop the class, but I need it, and there’s nothing else I can take this semester that fits my program plan. He certainly can’t stop teaching the class; it’s his job.

I don’t really think that he’ll get fired if we go ahead and start exploring this, but he might get a reputation with other students and professors that wouldn’t do him any favors. As for me, it would look like I’d do anything for a grade, even though that’s not the case.

I sigh. “I should get out of your hair,” I tell him. I don’t want to go, but I can’t stay either. It will just hurt.

He rests his hand over mine on the table again. “Before you go, let me say that you’re clearly a smart, professional woman. I know it’s hard, but don’t let them get you down. And I really did like your interpretation. Thank you for participating.”

He pulls his hand away reluctantly and I stand, slipping the rest of my things into my bag. “Thank you, Dr. Duquette.” I worry my lower lip between my teeth, forcing myself to move to the door.

As I reach it, Dr. Duquette softly says my name. When I turn back to look at him, my heart practically stops when I see that he’s leaning against the front table with the temple of his glasses in his mouth. “Robin,” he repeats, and my eyes widen, riveted on his stunningly gorgeous face. “I will wait for you. Whenever you want me, I’m here. And once the semester is over,” he assures me, his voice low and throaty, “I’ll come to you, unless you explicitly tell me not to.” He pulls his glasses from his mouth as he says the last word and slides them back on.

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

But he’s not in my head. He’s standing right in front of me.

The question escapes my lips before I can stop it. “Why?” I’m genuinely confused. No one has ever wanted me. If I tried to explain why, I’d be in this room for the rest of the night and into tomorrow morning.

Dr. Duquette smiles, picking up his own bag and making sure he has everything. He looks at the poem on the board for a moment before erasing it and walking to the door. I wait for him, wondering if he’s going to answer me. I slip out into the hallway so he can shut and lock the door behind him. He stops beside me, dropping his chin and softly breathing, “Only a fool wouldn’t want you. Have a good night, Robin.”

He turns and heads in the direction of the faculty offices. I watch him go, leaning against the wall, my heart hammering in my chest. He looks back at me longingly before he turns the corner, and then he’s gone.

I find that I’m finally able to move again, so I hurry outside, craving the cool autumn air. I walk faster than usual, trying to distance myself from what just happened. I’m confused, nervous, and over the moon all at the same time. Having him come on to me so strongly is intoxicating. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, of course, but he’s also sweet and smart and funny.

I stop abruptly, leaning down to pick up a large yellow leaf, twirling the stem between my fingers. As I center myself, several lines of the poem come back to me.

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_   
_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

I remember my interpretation of the poem and sigh to myself. “Oh, Sylvia,” I murmur, “I think I know how you feel.”


	2. Heart! We Will Forget Them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denny and Robin yearn for each other as the semester drags on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem featured in this chapter is “Heart, We Will Forget Him!” by Emily Dickinson.

**Robin**

_Heart! We will forget him!_

Normally, a semester goes by quickly. One day you’re getting the syllabi for all of your classes, and then suddenly you’re handing in final papers and projects, scrambling to get everything done on time. Of course, this semester trickles by as slowly as it can manage.

_You an I, tonight!_

After a week of distance, my attraction to Dr. Duquette hasn’t dissipated. If anything, it’s grown deeper.

The instant I walk into the room the second night of class, I know that his feelings are the same. His breath catches in his throat when he sees me, and my stomach flips in response.

_You may forget the warmth he gave,_

I still don’t know why he wants me, and I don’t dare ask again.

If I ask again, I know I’ll break.

_I will forget the light._

But I wonder. Every time he looks my way. What does he see in me? I know that I’m smart, but that usually turns men off. I know I can be assertive when I want to be, but that usually turns men off too. I’m much more insecure than I let on, and he saw it that first night.

_When you have done, pray tell me_

I avoid lingering too long after class, though I don’t rush out either. I avoid going to his office hours to ask questions. I’m generally not the type to do that anyway, but I could have made the excuse if I wanted to.

I can’t tempt myself, though.

He doesn’t touch me again. Part of me is glad, but the bigger part of me craves it. I remember exactly how his hands felt on that first night. A little rough, but so, so warm, and very gentle.

What would those hands feel like on parts of my body that no one else has ever touched?

_That I my thoughts may dim;_

I lay awake at night and think about him, my poetry anthology clutched to my chest. I try to convince myself that I don’t really know him at all, that there’s no need to be so obsessed. I try to convince myself that his interest will inevitably fade, that he’ll think about what he’s doing and nothing will come of it. Our class will end, and I’ll barely see him anymore. He doesn’t teach in my field, so there will be no reason for me to take another class with him.

When I think about not seeing him, my heart hurts.

At the same time that I’m trying to convince myself, I know in the back of my mind that I don’t really believe it. A man who has been through what he’s been through doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, or take life for granted. I know he’ll keep his promise and come to me when the semester is over.

Unless I tell him not to.

I’ve already decided that I’m not saying a word.

Because I remember the way his eyes smolder at me during class. The way he bites his lip just slightly whenever I read a poem or offer an interpretation, like he’s thrilled just to hear my voice.

And the way he gazes at me every time I leave class.

Like he can’t bear to see me go.

_Haste! Lest while you’re lagging,_

As the end of the semester nears, I find that I’m more anxious than usual. I’m having a hard time concentrating on my work, though I manage. 

All I can think about is the last day, when I’ll take my final exam and he’ll grade it and finally cease to be my teacher.

By that day, my nerves are flayed down to the bone. I want to bury myself in his arms and never leave. I want to know what he smells like when he first wakes up in the morning, what he tastes like, what he feels like twined around me.

I’ve never wanted anything or anyone so much in my life.

_I may remember him!_

It’s the hardest few months of my life, and I find myself wondering why I always insist on following the rules.

**Denny**

_Heart! We will forget her!_

Since I saw Robin, every day and night without her drags on interminably.

_You an I, tonight!_

The second night she steps into the classroom, she hesitates, and I know she’s wondering if she imagined it. If maybe it was a spell and the power has broken since that first evening.

But my breath catches in my throat when I see her, and she bites her lip as she walks to her seat, and I know she understands what my reaction means.

_You may forget the warmth she gave,_

I see how hard she’s trying to resist me. I understand why. She was right when she said that it’s technically not forbidden for a professor and a graduate student to date, but it is highly discouraged. And it would reflect far more badly on her than on me if we started seeing each other while she was my student, no matter how unfair that would be.

She asked me why, and I know my answer didn’t satisfy her. It didn’t satisfy me. The truth is, I can’t explain why. I never believed in love at first sight. There has been precious little love in my life at all, especially for the last eight years.

Even after my heart transplant, I always thought I would be alone. Even on my best days, I feel too old and too broken to be loved. I’ve only had a completely clean bill of health for a few months now, and part of me wonders how I could possibly ask someone to love me after everything that’s happened. What if I get sick again? I wouldn’t want anyone to have to stay through that.

But when I saw Robin for the first time, my center of gravity shifted. The world realigned. My life is better simply because she’s in it, no matter how distant she is at the moment.

I have no idea how to explain it.

And even if I did, I know that if I confess, I won’t be able to stay away.

So I don’t say a word.

_I will forget the light._

As the weeks pass, I gather concrete answers to her question.

She’s beautiful, of course. I noticed that right away. She’s short, at least a foot shorter than me. I know that her head will fit perfectly under my chin when I finally hold her. She’s curvy, a little on the heavier side; I want to pull her into my arms and pillow into her softness and warmth. She wears simple clothes with no jewelry. Her light brown hair is always pulled back away from her face, which shows off her prominent cheekbones and big hazel eyes, though I don’t think she wears it that way for that reason. Her full pink lips are always shiny, so I assume she uses some sort of lip balm.

I wonder what it tastes like.

Her beauty is effortless. She clearly cares about being neat and put together, but she’s not trying to be alluring.

She just is.

And she’s more than beautiful. She’s smart, and not just book smart like so many of my colleagues. She possesses a level of intelligence most people don’t. She’s extraordinarily empathetic, and she has a respect for all knowledge, no matter how unimportant it seems. I want to lay next to her and talk all night long, about anything and everything.

She’s also strong. She’s afraid of it sometimes, but she doesn’t let it scare her. She fights the insecurity. I can’t begin to explain how brave it is. I want to hold her, to soothe her fears, but not because I think she’s weak.

Because she’s exactly the opposite.

She asked why.

The obvious answer is everything.

_When you have done, pray tell me_

I don’t try to approach her again. I’m not overly friendly after class, and I don’t ask her to come to my office. I don’t want to tempt her.

Or me.

But I want to touch her again. Her hands are so soft, and I can only imagine what the rest of her skin will feel like. I want to explore every inch of her body, to slip my fingers into her crevices and make her feel things she’s never felt before.

As hard as it is, I keep my hands to myself.

_That I my thoughts may dim;_

I sit in bed at night, my poetry anthology in my lap, making notes in the margins, and wonder. What would Robin think of this poem? What would she say it’s about? Her interpretations always cut right to the heart, like she understands exactly what the writer was thinking when they put pen to paper.

When I read the dark poems about loneliness and death, I entertain the idea that by the end of our time together in class, she might not be interested in me. I can’t stand those thoughts.

Every week, I hang on every single word she says. They’re all precious.

She’ll gaze at me sometimes since no one else can see.

At the end of each night, I can barely stand to see her go. I want to twist my thick scarf around her neck, kiss her forehead affectionately, and go get coffee arm in arm before heading home to a warm apartment where we’ll sit and work in companionable silence, holding hands when we can. Then, when work is over, she’ll lead me to bed and I’ll melt into her arms and make love to her until we fall asleep.

I gaze wistfully after her each time she leaves, biting my tongue so I don’t ask her to stay.

_Haste! Lest while you’re lagging,_

By the end of the semester, I can barely concentrate on anything but the last day. She’ll finish her test, and I’ll place it on top of the pile. It will be easy to go over, and once it’s done, I’ll put her grade in first.

Then she won’t be my student anymore, and I won’t be her teacher, and I can go to her, just like I promised.

I want to bury myself in her arms and never leave. I want to know what she smells like right after a shower, what she tastes like, and what she feels like twined around me.

I have never wanted anything or anyone so much in my life.

_I may remember her!_

It’s the hardest few months of my life, even harder than the years I spent waiting for a heart.

All I want now is her.


	3. But I Shall Keep It Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin takes her final exam.

**Robin**

I sit quietly in my seat, staring at the last page of the exam.

I know I’ve done well. I always do well.

For once, I’m not worrying about my answers.

Without lifting my head, I glance in Dr. Duquette’s direction. He’s studiously grading the exams that have already been turned in at the table in the front of the room. The thick black frames of his glasses rest precariously on the end of his nose as he stares down at what must be a particularly odd answer, judging by the look on his face.

Everyone’s been talking about him recently, and the gossip is not academic. No one’s mentioning the many papers he’s written or the numerous awards he’s won.

Instead, they’re all talking about how criminally handsome he is. Fawning over how tall and lean he is, how deep his hazel eyes are, exclaiming about his fashionably messy brown hair, now just on the edge of too long, and his varying degrees of stubble, all streaked through with silver, whispering about how his dimples make him look ten years younger when he smiles.

Almost everyone wants him, but he’s expressed no interest in anyone whatsoever, as far as they know.

Part of me feels sorry for him. He’s their colleague. They should be concerned with more than his looks. They should be impressed by how smart he is.

And he’s not just book smart. He’s curious, almost philosophical in his musings, and subjects always seem to affect him deeply. He’s sweet, and kind, and always willing to help. Before almost every class, he’s offered students a variety of advice about graduate school, even though he doesn’t teach in their specialty areas. He’s told us that his door is always open, and I know he’s been lending out books and looking over assignments with students, even though he has stacks of his own papers to grade.

I’m hyperaware of everything he does, even though I’ve kept my distance.

The other part of me is completely smug.

He doesn’t want any of them. He wants me.

I sigh audibly. Dr. Duquette looks in my direction and I realize that I’m the last student in the room. My cheeks flush. Nothing can happen yet, I remind myself. He has to grade my exam first.

“I’m sure you did just fine,” he reassures me, pulling his glasses off and smiling teasingly. He obviously knows what I’m really thinking about.

It’s strange. We’ve hardly talked, except for interactions in class, and I feel like he knows more about me than anyone ever has. Like he understands me.

No one’s ever understood me before.

I look down at my test one more time. When I look back up, he’s got the temple of his glasses in his mouth again. Throughout the semester, I’ve noticed him do this several times, and have come to realize that it’s mostly an unconscious gesture.

Now, however, he is doing it on purpose, and it’s so sexy that my heart flips over in my chest.

He doesn’t look at anyone else the way he looks at me. I’ve been paying attention.

Even now, on the cusp of being able to make the choice, I wonder if I can bring myself to do this.

Be with him.

I’ve always been the good girl. I never skip class. I don’t misbehave. I do my homework. My grades are impeccable. 

So don’t I deserve one tiny act of rebellion?

After all, I’m not some gooey-eyed student with a silly sexual fantasy. I…

I bite my lower lip and breathe in sharply as the thought I’ve been running away from since we met passes through my mind.

I love him.

And somehow, against all the odds, I think he loves me too.

I won’t let myself really believe it until he says it, though.

I gaze at him, not bothering to hide my feelings since we’re alone.

He gazes back. He looks like he wants to say something, but he refrains.

I reach down and grab my bag, carefully placing all of my things inside it before slinging it over my shoulder. My hand shakes slightly as I pick up my exam, and it doesn’t stop as I close the short distance between my table and his and lay the papers in front of him.

I wait as his long fingers reach out, spinning the test around so he can glance at the answers I’ve written on the front page. “So far, so good,” he rumbles, his low, gravelly voice sending butterflies through my stomach. The skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles, his dimples on full display. Heat floods my cheeks again and I dip my head, putting my still shaking hands in the pockets of my thick muted yellow cardigan. He puts my exam on top of his stack, standing up and slipping them all into his own bag.

I want to say something so badly, but I can’t yet. I am still his student, and he is still my teacher. I press my lips together and turn to walk out the door.

“I have something for you.” I turn back, glancing at his hand, which now holds a slim volume. He extends it to me and I step forward, brushing my fingers over the cover, close enough now to read the author’s name. Elinor Wylie. I look up into his eyes, noticing that they’re desperate with need.

“I marked one I thought you would like,” he tells me. “As a token of appreciation for your participation this semester.” I run my thumb over the yellow tab curiously before curling my hand around the book’s thin spine.

He deliberately moves his fingers so that we touch. I gasp softly, looking up at him again. His eyes are dark and lidded, and he hums low in his throat as I clutch the book to my chest to steady myself. “Would you like the book back when I’m finished?” I ask, my voice quiet, like I’m afraid I’ll disturb the moment if I speak too loudly.

He has his response ready. “I could come and get it from you tonight if you tell me your address,” he answers, and his stare is so intense that my knees literally grow weak. “As long as you don’t mind, that is. I’ll be using the book next semester, and I’m leaving in a few days for the break, but that should give you enough time to make a copy.”

So close and we still have to dance around the point. The excuse is so flimsily fabricated. But I know that he’s considering us being overheard, or someone seeing him come to my door. Somehow, he knows I don’t like to lie, and he’s giving me a reason for his presence that I can use if I want to.

I consider his words. Should I be disappointed that he’s leaving? I can’t think about anything beyond tonight. After tonight, everything will be different, won’t it? 

“I don’t mind at all,” I manage to say. My voice sounds incredibly weary. Part of it is normal end of the semester fatigue, but more of it is my aching heart. My nerves are completely worn down. I won’t last another day without him. 

I fish a bright yellow-green sticky note out of my bag and write my address on it. I peel the small square of paper off of the pad and carefully hand it to him. He takes it, making sure not to touch my hand again, as if he senses my exhaustion.

I hesitate for a moment, shutting my eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. Not yet, I remind myself. “Have a good break, Dr. Duquette,” I tell him, backing up until I’m leaning against the doorframe so that I don’t lose sight of him until I absolutely have to. He nods and I twirl around quickly, walking briskly down the hallway and out of the building into the crisp winter air, which I hope will clear my head.

I stand under the eaves in the dim light of the late morning, opening the book he gave me to the page he’d marked.

The poem is called “Valentine.”

_Too high, too high to pluck_   
_My heart shall swing._   
_A fruit no bee shall suck,_   
_No wasp shall sting._

_If on some night of cold_   
_It falls to ground_   
_In apple-leaves of gold_   
_I’ll wrap it round._

_And I shall seal it up_   
_With spice and salt,_   
_In a carven silver cup,_   
_In a deep vault._

_Before my eyes are blind_   
_And my lips mute,_   
_I must eat core and rind_   
_Of that same fruit._

_Before my heart is dust_   
_At the end of all,_   
_Eat it I must, I must_   
_Were it bitter gall._

_But I shall keep it sweet_   
_By some strange art;_   
_Wild honey I shall eat_   
_When I eat my heart._

_O honey cool and chaste_   
_As clover’s breath!_   
_Sweet Heaven I shall taste_   
_Before my death._

My eyes fill with tears and my heart feels like it’s about to burst as I read the poem.

I’m so tired of hiding. I just want to be with him.

I take a deep shaky breath and look at the end of the poem.

He’s circled the line that says “Sweet Heaven I shall taste” and written one word in his cramped handwriting.

Rain starts to fall as I read and reread that word.

_Tonight._


	4. Angel in My Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The semester is finally over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem featured in this chapter is "Time in Eternity" by Tom Merrill. Forgive my blatant misattribution for plot.

**Robin**

I distracted myself for the rest of the afternoon by running errands. When I finally couldn’t think of anything else that needed to be done, I walked home slowly with Dr. Morgan’s book pressed tightly against my chest, thinking about his message. My head was spinning as I unlocked my front door and slipped into my dark kitchen. It wasn’t really that late yet, but it felt like night came sooner and sooner with each passing day.

All my work for the semester was done, thank goodness. I could no longer concentrate on anything but him, and it had taken all my strength to be the student I normally was these past few weeks. Now I’m worrying about other things, like the fact that I have absolutely no experience with dating or romance.

I walk into my bedroom, setting his book down on my nightstand, propping it open to the page he wrote on. I grab my normal lounging around the house clothes from the spot where they’re neatly folded on my bed, and then I hesitate. He’s going to be here soon. I should wear something, well… sexier. I blush at the thought, but bend down to open the bottom drawer of my dresser, which contains a variety of items that I usually never wear.

I strip my clothes off, throwing them in the hamper, and then slip on the pair of lacey purple panties I selected. I move over to my closet door, which is also a mirror, and turn, looking at myself nervously. I’m short and curvy, and honestly a little overweight. He has to have noticed. Does it really not bother him? I try not to let it bother me, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sometimes. And I definitely look better in clothes than I do naked, although that might be jumping the gun a little. Does he want to see me naked?

Whether he does or not, I’d like to be prepared.

The panties look nice, I decide. They’re more like shorts, but they only cover half of my butt, which definitely looks good. I know what my best features are, at least. I frown at my chest. None of my bras are really very sexy; they’re all practical. The bigger you are, the harder it is to find nice lingerie, and I’ve never really needed any before.

My stomach does somersaults as I wonder if he wants to take me to bed. I mean, that’s something you do when you love someone, isn’t it? It’s not that I don’t want him to; despite my lack of experience, I think about sex a lot. I just… don’t know what to do. At all.

I take a deep breath. One step at a time, right? I need to make sure I’m comfortable. So… casual on top, sexy underneath. I can do that.

I force myself away from the mirror so I stop obsessing, pulling on a loose white skirt that falls to my knees and a white spaghetti strap tank top with a built-in shelf bra. I tuck the tank top into the waistband of the skirt, throwing on a slouchy purple t-shirt over it. I leave my feet bare. I’m already not wearing any make-up or jewelry, and that’s the way I like it.

I skip across the hall to the bathroom, excitement making me forget how long I’ve waited for this for just a moment. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on my favorite lip balm. My hair is damp from my walk home, so I untwist it to brush it out. It has nice waves in it thanks to the weather and being up all day, so I fluff it out, watching it fall to just below my chin and above my shoulders. I usually never wear it down. I wonder if he’ll like it that way.

I take a quick tour of my small apartment and put away anything that’s out of place. Luckily, I’d had a burst of energy last night after studying, so I had cleaned the entire place from top to bottom.

When I reach the kitchen, I stop to think. Will he want dinner? That would be something nice to offer him, and cooking helps me focus. I bounce on the balls of my feet as I poke through my fridge and cabinets; I want something easy, something light. I have arugula and garlic, which means I can make a nice, simple pasta. I carefully place the ingredients on the counter, thinking about what I’ll need to cook everything.

Then there’s a knock on my door.

I freeze, and suddenly my heart is beating rapidly in my chest. I know it’s him. I don’t get visitors.

I take a deep, deep breath, fussing with my hair again. I know I should look through the peephole before opening it, but I’m too keyed up. I open the door.

It really is him.

I gaze at him. My throat feels locked up; I can’t speak yet. He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing earlier. Casual suit jacket, white button-down shirt, jeans, all slightly rumpled and halfway to wet because of the rain that’s still falling outside. He’s not wearing his glasses, probably so they don’t get wet. His skin glows in the light of the streetlights, and his eyes shine brightly. He looks nervous; as he stares at me, a shy smile creeps over his face. He’s fiddling with something, which draws my eyes to his hands. I see the Post-It note I’d given him earlier. The sticky edge is folded over, and the paper is crumpled and worn, like he’s been worrying it between his fingers all day. He realizes that he’s still playing with the piece of paper a moment later, so he smiles sheepishly and sticks it back in his pocket.

There are so many things I want to say, but now I can’t make myself say any of them. I open my mouth to try and, to my horror, all that escapes is a sob. His eyes widen as he watches every last vestige of strength I’ve been hanging onto crumble. Suddenly, I’m crying and I can’t stop, so I do the only thing I can think of instead.

I step forward, pressing my face against his damp shirt, and I let myself weep in his arms.

**Jeffrey**

I squeeze her tightly against me, holding her while she cries, cradling the back of her head in one of my large hands. I was right; she fits perfectly under my chin. I feel tears sting my own eyes as I stroke her hair and softly murmur, “It’s all right, honey. I’m here.”

She shakes against me, and I rock her back and forth, leaning down to press my lips to her temple, my nose nudging her hair. She smells like water lilies. She’s so warm and soft against me, and I can’t believe I’ve managed to wait so long for this. If I had known how good she would feel, I would have run after her that first night and never let go.

Her arms twine around my neck, and I sigh heavily as I feel her bare skin touch mine. One of her hands is in the collar of my shirt; the other is buried in my hair. There is so much that I want to tell her, but I don’t even know where to begin.

She rises up on her toes and I hold her firmly against me as she tugs my head down so she can press our cheeks together. Her tears have mostly stopped. “You came,” she whispers, and there is so much feeling in those two little words that I’m floored.

I move so that our foreheads touch, brushing my nose gently over hers. Her eyes are bottomless pools of warm molten chocolate, and her mouth is so close to mine. I could kiss her, I realize. I’m allowed to kiss her now. But not yet. First, I need to tell her. She needs to know.

“I promised I would,” I remind her. She just stares up at me happily, and I realize that we’re standing on her doorstep in the cold, the rain misting onto us because of the wind. She’s only wearing a t-shirt and a skirt, and her feet are bare, and suddenly I’m worried about her. “Let’s go inside, Robin,” I say, my voice deep and my stomach tight. “You’ll catch cold out here.”

She glances from side to side, as if she’s only just now realized where she is, and I smile as she steps backwards, drawing me inside. I grab the handle of the door, shutting it behind me before running a hand through my damp hair. She’s beaming up at me, and she runs her hand down my arm to take mine, the other slipping down my chest to cover my heart. “Jeffrey,” she says softly. It’s the only time she’s ever said my first name, and I cherish it.

I pull her against me again, pressing her cheek to my chest. She sinks back into me and I wrap my arms around her shoulders. Suddenly I feel shy. As a teacher, I’m confident in myself. As a man… not so much. I feel myself blush.

She tilts her head up so she can look at me again, and her smile is radiant when she sees me blushing. “Can you never stop touching me?” she asks, dropping her chin demurely, and I chuckle.

“I’ll do my best,” I assure her, raising my hand and rubbing the loose strands of her hair between my fingers. “You look beautiful,” I add bashfully. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down.” She makes a small noise in the back of her throat as I sweep her hair back, gently tracing the shell of her ear.

“I like it out of my way at school,” she admits, and I feel her hands tremble against me. “That feels nice,” she breathes. I repeat the gesture, feeling her shiver and melt into my arms.

“Good.” All I want is to make her happy, and I can’t decide how to start.

**Robin**

I stare up at him as he plays with my hair. I realize that his lashes are very long. They soften his face, especially when he closes his eyes.

His hands are large and strong and warm on me, and I can feel how hot his skin is through the thin fabric of his shirt.

We’re both awestruck and nervous. I try to focus by being practical.

“Can I take your jacket?” I ask. “I could toss it into the dryer if you like, unless you dry clean it.”

He laughs, reluctantly drawing away from me enough so that he can shrug the jacket from his shoulders and fold it over his arm. “Do I look like a man who gets his clothes dry cleaned?” he teases. “The other day, Professor Miles told me that I looked like a rumpled bear that just woke up after hibernating for the winter.” I couldn’t help laughing along with him.

“Well, I like the slightly rumpled look,” I inform him, winking and feeling heat flare in my cheeks again.

He raises his eyebrows as he toes off his shoes so he can leave them by the door, revealing black socks. I reach out and take his hand, unable to resist touching him again. His closes around mine immediately in response. “Well, if you like it, I won’t change it,” he says nonchalantly. “I’m not trying to date Professor Miles.” It’s his turn to wink as I laugh uproariously, leading him to the closet by the bathroom that conceals my washer and dryer.

“You have a gorgeous laugh,” he tells me quietly as we reach the closet, and I glance at him shyly. He leans against the wall as I open the door and put his jacket in the dryer. I grab a dryer sheet and fiddle with the dials.

“Thank you,” I answer just as quietly, shutting the door and leaning against the wall opposite him so I can stare. “By the way,” I say conspiratorially, “the only reason Professor Miles’ clothes are always pressed is because he still lives with his mother and she does all of his laundry.”

He bursts out laughing. “Really?” I nod. “I’ll remember that for next time.” He gets quiet again, tilting his head and gazing at me. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he asks softly. “Just… tell you about my day?” His smile is sweet and serene.

I push off the wall and close the short distance between us, sliding my hands over his chest and leaning against him. He frames my face with his hands and his thumb brushes longingly over my mouth. I kiss the pad of his finger gently and he bites his lip.

“You don’t have to try, you know,” I tell him sincerely, and he looks at me curiously. “To date me,” I clarify. “I’m already saying yes. To you. To everything. Just… yes, Jeffrey.” He takes a slow, deep breath before standing up straight and pressing his lips to my forehead. I sigh and cling to him.

“Come on,” I urge, taking his hand to lead him back to the kitchen. “Let me make you dinner.”

He follows me willingly. “You cook?” he asks curiously as we walk, and I nod.

“I can’t cook,” he admits. “I’m more of an eat out of the freezer kind of guy.”

“You don’t have to be anymore,” I say lightly. When I look at him, his dimples are on full display.

“I learned something new about you,” he says, reaching out and tracing my cheekbone with his fingers. “I’ve been waiting for a long time to do that too.” His hazel eyes darken as he touches me.

I wave at the ingredients on the counter. “Any objections?”

He looks everything over. “No. I’m not picky.” He pauses. “What’s arugula?”

I giggle. “It’s a green that tastes like pepper.” He smiles at me sheepishly and then starts to roll his sleeves up over his taut forearms. “Can I help?”

I put my hands on his upper arms and guide him to a chair. “Sit and relax, Jeffrey. It’s easy to make, and it won’t take long.”

**Jeffrey**

I obey, sitting down in the chair, leaning back and crossing my legs as I pull my glasses from my shirt pocket and put them on so I can watch her. She’s graceful without trying to be. Every movement flows sinuously into the next, almost like she’s a dancer.

When she glances over her shoulder and sees me, she smiles shyly and I tilt my head curiously.

“What are you smiling about?” I ask her. She blushes. I love it when she blushes. She’s very pale, and the pink color glows beautifully on her skin.

“I like your glasses,” she finally tells me. I chuckle.

“Really? When I figured out that I needed them, I took it as a sign that I was getting old.” I finger them thoughtfully, sobering a little. My age is something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently.

She notices, stepping over to me. “Not old. Distinguished,” she replies thoughtfully. She caresses my cheek, her fingers stroking through the soft hair of my beard. “Like your beard,” she adds. “I like the silver.” After another moment, she turns back to the counter, but I grab her hand, stopping her, a serious look on my face.

“You don’t think I’m too old for you?” I ask, my voice raw. This is what I’m most uncertain about. Very technically, I’m old enough to be her father. What if she wants a family? I feel like I have so little time left for these things, things I never thought about until I met her. And what will happen to her when I’m gone? It’s so far ahead to think, but I can’t help but worry about her. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and I can tell by the comments she’s made throughout the semester that she hasn’t either.

She shifts so that she’s standing between my legs and frames my face with her hands, tilting my head up until I’m looking at her. I curl my hands around her waist and sigh heavily. She begins to stroke my hair soothingly. “Jeffrey,” she begins. Her voice is calm and focused. “Are you really worried about what I think, or are you worried about what other people will think?”

I sigh again, pulling her closer, resting my head against the softness of her belly. “I’m fifty,” I point out, my voice troubled. “That’s eighteen years older than you.” She raises an eyebrow to ask me how I know that, and I admit, “I read your file.” It was the one indulgence I allowed myself all semester. “And I was your teacher until an hour ago,” I add. “We know that nothing untoward happened, but to some people, that won’t matter.”

She continues to caress me. Her touch is the most comforting thing I’ve ever felt in my life. If I can’t be good enough for her, I’ll be so disappointed in myself.

“Look at me, please,” she requests, and I tip my head up, my eyes creased with worry. “I’ve known all of those things from the beginning,” she reminds me. “And you may be eighteen years older than me, but I’m a grown woman, Jeffrey, not a lovestruck teenager. I know what I want. And you’re not my teacher anymore, and you won’t be again.” She stops. I get the feeling that she’s having the same problem as me. So much to say, nowhere to start.

Finally, I speak. “Not a lovestruck teenager, huh?” I know what she meant, but my smile is small. Is it so wrong to wish that she is at least a little lovestruck?

She processes my question and then softly clarifies, “Not a teenager.” I suck in a surprised breath. Does she really…?

I want to tell her, but instead more of my insecurity pours out. “People will talk,” I explain. “They’ll say unfair and unkind things about you behind your back, even if they know they’re not true. I don’t want to put you through that. They’ll make you the bad guy, not me,” I assure her. It will be completely unfair, but it’s what will happen.

“I know,” she responds. “I’m a big girl, Jeffrey. I can handle it.”

I stand, cupping her face in my hands and pressing our foreheads together again. “There’s so much I want to say to you,” I murmur. “I just don’t know how.”

Her small, delicate hands circle my wrists. “Try saying it with a poem,” she suggests. It’s a smart suggestion. It’s how we’ve been talking all semester, since that first night I changed the poem on the board because of her.

I nod. “All right.” I have the perfect one.

Her attention is riveted on me as I start to speak.

_When you were as an angel in my arms,_  
_Had laid your bare head just below my chin,_  
_Your length pressed up to mine, entrusting charms_  
_My whole youth’s starward longing could not win;_  
_With still the murmur of your love in me,_  
_Miracle-tones of all my lifelong hope,_  
_I wished that there might start eternity_  
_And seal forever that sweet envelope;_  
_And as it did, my thoughts are now for you_  
_As every star is blotted by the sun,_  
_And so the sun itself_  
_Has perished too._  
_And with it, every dream of mine_  
_But one._

These words come easily, and by the time I finish, she’s trembling against me. I tip her chin up so that our mouths are almost touching.

“I’ve never heard that poem before,” she says, and I can feel every word vibrate through my lips. “Who wrote it?”

“I did,” I rasp. "For you." My voice is rough with want. “Robin,” I pant, “I love you.” Her hands move from my wrists to my neck. Her quivering ripples up and down my spine as she touches me.

“I love you, Jeffrey,” she answers desperately, and then she’s rising up on her toes and I’m bending my head so that our lips meet. The moment they do, I know that she’s mine. I feel it in my skin, in every nerve, and deep in my heart. 

I make a sound low in my throat, splaying my hand over her neck and caressing the hollow of her throat. I kiss her as passionately as I can, long, slow, open-mouthed, and soon we’re both gasping for air. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

When I finally pull away, she sags against me, burying her face in my chest. She’s shaking from head to toe, and I hold her tightly.

“Are you all right, honey?” I ask her, my breathing ragged. She nods, and then she moves her head so she can look at me. She reaches up, tracing my lips with her fingers reverently.

“That was my first kiss,” she admits softly. I’m stunned. How is it even remotely possible that no one has ever wanted to kiss her?

Then the thought occurs to me that maybe she’s never wanted to kiss anyone before.

But she kissed me.

I bundle her closer, stroking my fingers over her cheekbone.

“I hope it was worth the wait,” I say. Please. I just want her to be happy. Perfectly, magically, deliriously happy.

“It was everything,” she breathes, gripping my shirt collar in her hand and drawing my face down to hers once more.

Her mouth is touching mine when she whispers, “Now do it again.”


	5. Every Day's Most Quiet Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lonely people find each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems used in this chapter are "How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and an untitled haiku by Tyler Knott Gregson.

**Robin**

“Robin,” he pants, “I love you.” My hands move from his wrists to his neck, and they’re quivering. His hands are trembling against my face, and my whole body shivers in response.

“I love you, Jeffrey,” I answer desperately, rising up on my toes. He’s so tall that I’m not sure I can reach, but he bends his head so that our lips can meet.

I’ve never been kissed before. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone before.

But I want to kiss him. It feels like I’ve been waiting to kiss him for my whole life.

I’m finally his, and he’s mine. His presence wraps around me, and I can feel him in my skin, in every nerve, and deep in my heart.

He makes a sound low in his throat as he splays his hand over my neck and caresses the hollow of my own throat with his thumb. His fingers are slightly rough, and I gasp harder against his lips. His kiss is long and slow, his mouth open over mine, and I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

When he finally pulls away, I sag against him, burying my face in his chest. I’m shaking all over, and he holds me tightly, massaging my back and stroking my hair.

“Are you all right, honey?” he asks. His breathing is ragged. I nod slowly, tipping my head up so I can look at him. His lips are shiny because of my lip balm, and I reach up, tracing them reverently.

“That was my first kiss,” I admit softly. He looks stunned, and I smile. I never thought I would kiss anyone. I thought I would always be alone.

But he kissed me.

He bundles me closer, stroking his fingers over my cheekbone, and I sink into his warmth.

“I hope it was worth the wait,” he says, and his voice sounds a little desperate. Does he really think that wasn’t worth it? It was so incredible.

Suddenly, I worry that maybe it didn’t feel the same for him. Maybe I should try to kiss him the way he kissed me. Passionately, like the world might stop if we weren’t kissing.

“It was everything,” I breathe, gripping his short collar in my hand and drawing his face down to mine again.

Our mouths touch, and we linger for a moment, just feeling each other.

“Now do it again,” I whisper, but this time I make sure my lips meet his first. I stretch up as far as I can, standing on the balls of my feet, wrapping one arm around his strong, broad shoulders and the other around the back of his neck. Tentatively, I let my tongue slip into his mouth, and he responds eagerly, twining his around mine.

He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up off of the floor, one arm snaking up my back for support, and holds my head gently against his as this second kiss ends, brushing his nose over mine slowly and sensually. He walks over to the counter, setting me on it and pressing our foreheads together as we both try to calm our breathing.

Finally, I look up at him. “You wrote a poem for me?” I ask shyly. He smiles, cupping my face in his hands, and nods.

“I had to put my feelings somewhere, or I never would have lasted this long,” he reveals, and I blush as my eyes well up with tears. He brushes them away with his thumbs as they start to fall. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice pained. “I don’t want you to cry, sweetheart.”

I slip my arms around his waist and pull him as close as I can. “I’m just sorry we had to wait so long,” I tell him. “I could hardly stand it. I’ve wanted to tell you how I feel for months.”

“Tell me now,” he urges. I gaze up at him, thinking about the poem he wrote for me. I didn’t write it, but I have one in mind for him too.

I untuck his shirt and slip my hands underneath it so I can touch his bare skin. He sighs and his muscles tighten as my fingers move over him. When I start to speak, he hangs on every word.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._   
_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_   
_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_   
_For the ends of being and ideal grace._   
_I love thee to the level of every day’s_   
_Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._   
_I love thee freely, as men strive for right;_   
_I love thee purely, as they turn from praise,_   
_I love thee with the passion put to use_   
_In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith._   
_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_   
_With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,_   
_Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,_   
_I shall but love thee better after death._

I slip my hands around to his front. He’s lean, but well-muscled, and there’s soft hair on his belly. I get hot all over and he leans into my touch, bracing one hand against the counter.

I’m tempted to ask him if we can skip dinner, but I’m nervous. I’ve never gone to bed with a man before, and I’m afraid that I’ll ruin everything once we’re there. I don’t want him to feel like he has to do all the work.

“Let me make you dinner,” I request quietly, reluctantly withdrawing my hands.

“All right,” he answers, giving me a brief kiss before he lifts me off of the counter and lets me get to work.

**Jeffrey**

I could have kissed her forever. I could have taken her right to bed and never left. But if that had been her first kiss… I wanted her to be ready. I didn’t want her to be nervous. Somehow, we already knew each other so well, but I wanted to know her better.

I watch her while she makes dinner. It’s silent except for the sounds of the food cooking. I lean against the table, my chin propped up in my hand, and just stare. I’m completely focused on her; the world could have ended around me and I wouldn’t have noticed.

It’s not long before she brings two bowls to the table and sits down beside me, taking the chair next to mine so we can sit close together. She hooks her ankle around mine under the table and I smile at her. She smiles shyly back. Even now, I know that I’ll never get tired of her looking at me that way.

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes. It really is delicious.

“This is very good,” I compliment her.

“Thank you,” she replies demurely, pressing her arm against mine. “I’ll make you meals anytime,” she adds, blushing a little.

I chuckle. “I might not ever leave,” I joke, but I’m looking at her longingly. She threads her fingers through mine and gazes at me.

“I’m okay with that,” she admits quietly, and I lean down, brushing my lips over her cheek. She turns her head so that our lips meet once more. I set my fork down so I can cup her jaw, tracing it gently with my fingers as we kiss. I rub her nose with mine before I pull away and resume eating. After a moment, she speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything,” I assure her. Her answering smile is sweet and satisfied.

She pauses, twirling pasta around her fork absentmindedly as she thinks. Finally, she looks away from me and asks, “Why are you single?” She speaks very quickly, like she’s worried about what I’ll think. “I just… don’t understand,” she continues. “You’re smart and successful, but you’re humble about it. You’re sweet and kind and go out of your way to help other people. You’re always thinking about something; you can talk for hours and never get tired of it. And you’re handsome,” she adds, blushing again. “So handsome that words can’t really describe you. And I’ve heard people talk about you in the department. Plenty of them would be willing to spend time with you, and they don’t even know how good of a kisser you are.” She bites her lip in uncertainty as I feel myself turn bright red.

For a moment, all I can concentrate on is that she thinks I’m smart and sweet and a good kisser.

Then my discomfort at being flattered takes over. I run my hand through my hair nervously, thinking about how to explain myself to her. “I, um…” I start, then trail off. “I’ve always been, well… odd,” I manage, inwardly cursing how shaken I sound. “And very private in certain ways. I’m not a very social person, despite my profession. I’d rather spend my weekend in bed reading than going out somewhere. I’ve had a few relationships in the past, and all my partners got frustrated with how introspective I am. I can’t shut my brain off; it’s hard for me to really relax. I think that all of the women I’ve dated have expected or wanted me to be a certain way, and I just didn’t meet their expectations. And then, after trying so many times and failing, I just got used to being alone. To being… well, lonely, if I’m being honest. I’m very affectionate, and I feel deeply, but not in the way that anyone expects. What they see doesn’t match what I am, I suppose. I don’t know how else to describe it.” I turn my head, looking at her apprehensively.

A tiny laugh escapes her. I’m not sure how to react, so I just blink worriedly. Immediately, I see that she feels guilty, and she reaches for my face, pulling my forehead down to hers. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just…” She sighs. “You sound like a dream come true to me. I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t want you for those reasons.”

I pull back just enough so I can look into her eyes. “Really?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck and smiling bashfully.

“Really,” she answers, stroking my beard with her hands. “I like to stay in too, and people have always told me that I’m… different. And not in a good way. I talk too much, and I always want to analyze everything. It’s because I’m interested, but most people find it annoying. That’s why I don’t have any, um, experience,” she admits, blushing deeply even though she must know I’ve already figured that out because of her confession after our kiss. “I know what you mean about getting used to being alone, about being affectionate and feeling deeply, but no one really understanding you.”

She stops speaking, leaning forward so she can kiss me lightly, as if she’s reminding herself that I’m real. I turn my body towards her, sliding one arm around her shoulders, placing the other firmly on the small of her back. She whimpers as I deepen the kiss, making it slow and thorough. When I break the kiss, her hands tighten on my face, trying to draw me back in and keep me close to her. “Where did you come from?” I muse, smoothing her hair over her ear tenderly. “You’re completely perfect.”

I feel her start to vibrate with energy at my admission, and she buries her face in my arm. “You think I’m perfect,” she breathes. “Completely perfect.” I tip her chin up with my fingers, beaming at her, and she closes her eyes briefly, trying to calm herself. When she opens them again, she looks sideways at our empty bowls and asks, “Did you get enough to eat?”

I can see that she needs a moment. It’s all overwhelming for me too, but it must be even more overwhelming for her. I lean back and grab the bowls from the table. “I did,” I answer softly, standing up. “At least let me put these in your sink,” I offer, “since you did all the work to make us a lovely meal.” After I set the bowls down, I turn, leaning against her counter, my hands braced on it. I don’t want to move too fast for her.

She twists her hands together and stammers. “Did you want some coffee? I usually have some after dinner. Or… did you have to go? I don’t want to keep you…” She stops talking, and I can see that she’s unsure.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask gently. I don’t want to leave her. That’s the last thing I want. But I will if she tells me to.

Curiously, my question seems to calm her. She looks directly into my eyes and says, “I want to keep you. I want you all to myself for the rest of my life. I’m just… still having a hard time believing that you want me too, and… I’m just feeling so many things I’ve never felt before.”

I step forward, reaching out for her hand and pulling her into me, holding her tightly while she presses her face against my chest. I ruffle her hair and kiss her forehead gently. “I want to be kept,” I tease, and she rewards me with that beautiful laugh. I get more serious as I continue. “I’m yours all night, if you want me,” I assure her, reaching down and pulling her chin up again so she’s looking at me. We stare at each other for a minute, and then I take a deep breath.

“You don’t have to worry,” I soothe her. “You’re safe with me. I promise.” I pause. “You’re the only thing in the world that matters.” Her face lights up and my heart skips a beat.

“I’m not expecting anything. There’s no rush. Whatever you want… that’s fine with me. It’s not that I don’t want you. I do. All of you.” I brush my thumb over her lips and she shivers, clinging to me, clearly understanding my meaning. “But we don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. There’s no rush. If you want me to go, I will.” She shakes her head as I say it, and I smile. “If you want me to sleep on your couch, I will. If you want me to hold you while you sleep, I will. And if you want me to make love to you,” I add, my voice deep and husky, “believe me, I will.”

She sinks deeper into my embrace, breathing hard. “What if I feel like I want everything all at once?” she asks.

I chuckle, grasping her around the waist and lifting her onto her counter so that I’m standing between her thighs. “I can work with that,” I say sincerely, surrounding her face with my hands, trying to make her feel protected. “I’m going to kiss you again now,” I inform her, bending my mouth until it’s barely brushing hers.

“Yes, please,” she begs, her lips fluttering against mine.

I kiss her, tracing her lips with my tongue, asking for entrance. She sighs, letting me in, and when our tongues tangle together, all of my senses sharpen with intense focus. I can feel her against me, soft and warm wherever we touch. I can hear her heart beating rapidly; her breathing is ragged and uneven. She’s gasping and whimpering into my mouth, and her lip balm tastes faintly of roses. Her skin smells fresh and clean. When I finally break away, I see the world reflected back at me in her eyes.

She buries her hands in my soft hair and I lean into her touch. “I can’t even imagine not wanting you, Jeffrey,” she murmurs. “And I have a good imagination.”

“I can’t imagine not wanting you, either,” I rasp, running my fingers up and down her neck, making her shiver from head to toe. She pulls me closer, scooting forward so that our hips meet as we kiss again. Each kiss is more intense than the last, and even though she’s responding, I’m afraid of pushing her too far too fast. I pull away reluctantly, but she drags me back, embracing me roughly, desperately, as if she’s afraid I might disappear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, holding her tightly and whispering the words against her mouth. She nods, dropping her head to my chest and burrowing into me.

“Let’s have coffee and sit on your couch,” I suggest. “We can talk, watch TV, whatever you want. I just want to spend time with you. Is that all right?”

She pulls back so she can look at me, and I lift her down off of the counter so I can hold her closer. I can’t stop touching her hair. It’s so soft.

“I’d like that,” she says softly, biting her lip. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Then I won’t,” I answer, my fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. “Not until you tell me to.”

She laughs lightly. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for that,” she teases me. I chuckle and press my lips to her forehead.

“All right,” I say, holding her against me, staying silent until we’ve both calmed down a bit. Once she’s still, I bend down to kiss her mouth gently, softly stroking her cheek. “Come on,” I murmur. “Let’s make coffee and sit down.”

“Okay.” She kisses me one more time. As she turns away, my arms ache. I feel so empty without her in them. Several lines of poetry spool through my brain, and I whisper them aloud to myself.

_I’ll uncross your arms_   
_And then I will become them._   
_I’ll hold you instead._

“What, Jeffrey?” I hear her ask, and when I open my eyes, she’s looking at me curiously. I step forward, sliding my arms around her waist and repeating the words into her ear.

She tilts her head, smiling happily as she presses back against me, and I repeat the words again.

I feel like Icarus flying too close to the sun, and I’m waiting for my wings to melt.


End file.
